The Secret Recipe for Moving On Karen Bischer (read my book .txt) 📖

He insisted that I could get him at his dentist’s office, which is a few blocks from here. “I have an appointment in the morning for a cleaning. It’ll just be easier for you to get me there,” he’d said. We find him waiting by the curb.

“Yo,” he says, opening the passenger side back door.

“Any cavities?” Luke asks.

“Huh?” A.J. says, sounding confused. “Oh, no. Not this time.”

“On to Isaiah’s we go, then,” Luke says.

“I’m glad his mom is letting him come,” I say.

A.J. leans forward. “Do you have a strategy for meeting her?”

Since Mrs. Greenlow wants to meet the person doing the driving, Isaiah says I’m the only one she wants to meet.

I shrug. “Apparently I have mom cred, so that’s what’s going to win her over.”

“You do!” Luke says, “You’re … what’s the word? Wholesome!”

Wholesome? Seriously? The PMS-ish feeling comes rushing back and I’m suddenly cranky. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” A.J. says. “You’re just not, you know…”

“The type of girl no guy wants to date?” I spit.

“Take it easy,” Luke says, patting my shoulder. “Why would you think that?”

I know exactly why. Because apparently I was so wholesome, my boyfriend dumped me for a girl who wasn’t. But I don’t say that. “I don’t know,” I sigh, feeling bad that I’m getting so angry over the Hunter thing for the bazillionth time.

“Believe me,” Luke goes on. “I didn’t mean it like a bad thing. You just know who you are and you’re okay with it.”

“And moms love that sort of thing,” A.J. says. “Like, you’re not going to lead anyone down the wrong path or some shit.”

I shrug. “Well, then both your moms are going to be disappointed because I’m really going to take you to an underground fight club and not the racetrack.”

A.J. thumps back in his seat. “Man, that would be epic.”

Wholesome. God, let’s see how long it takes me to move past that one.

We pull up in front of Isaiah’s house, a sprawling pale-yellow ranch with immaculate landscaping and a weeping willow tree in the front yard.

I take a deep breath and unbuckle my seat belt. “Well, here goes nothing.”

When I knock on the front door, Isaiah steps out, followed by a thin woman in a cardigan, her big brown eyes solemn. They look so much alike my mom would say, “She could’ve spit Isaiah out.”

“You must be Mary Ellen. I’m Elena,” she says with a slight Caribbean accent. She sticks out her hand and when I shake it, I make sure to have a firm grip. My father says he doesn’t trust anyone with a weak handshake.

“So, we’re going to go now,” Isaiah says, gesturing over his shoulder toward the car.

“Just a minute, honey,” Mrs. Greenlow says. “I want to make sure you know the rules here.”

“I know, no gambling. And no talking to anyone but my friends.”

I suddenly feel all melty inside at being referred to as Isaiah’s friend. But then I realize it’s probably just less formal than saying classmates.

“Isaiah tells me you’re a good student and are respectful and that the other boys are, too, it’s why I’m allowing this,” she says. “I don’t mean to seem so overprotective, but I know how racetracks can be and I just want to make sure you’ll look out for each other.”

“Well, it’s Family Day,” I say, wracking my brain for anything optimistic to say. “I bet there will be lots of parents and kids. Maybe even grandparents!” Maybe even grandparents? How is that reassuring? Good god.

“Thanks again for letting me go, Mom,” Isaiah says, probably wanting to get out of here before I say something else stupid.

Mrs. Greenlow smooths her hand over his hair with a small smile. “Have a good time. And text if you’re going to be late.”

When we get into the car, she waves to us from the porch. I can’t help but notice her forehead creases and I feel bad.

“I’m sorry about that,” Isaiah says from the back seat. “If we were going to the outlets or something she wouldn’t have been all crazy like that. I just didn’t want to lie to her.”

“No worries, she wasn’t crazy at all,” I say, smiling at him in the rearview mirror. “We’re just glad she let you go.”

It’s a chatty ride to the racetrack—apparently Mrs. Sanchez is married to a bodybuilder and A.J. found his profile on Instagram last night—and there are no awkward silences or anything, which deep down I had feared. Like, it’s close to impossible to be quiet when pondering how much protein Mrs. Sanchez and her husband have to cook to keep him in that kind of shape.

We pull into the crowded parking lot of the racetrack, which we can’t see since it’s obscured by a large building. There are a lot of little kids running around, and the smell of barbecue is coming from somewhere beyond the main gate.

“A guy in a pink suit and gold chains just walked in there,” A.J. marvels, pointing inside the gate.

“Hey, guys who like pink suits and gold chains have families, too, you know,” Luke says, and I can’t help but giggle.

“We’re going to need a program,” Isaiah says after we pay our entrance fee. He points to an old man in a green visor, who’s holding up what looks like magazines, then digs into his pocket and pulls out a dollar, which he hands to the man.

“Good luck today, sir,” the man says, smiling at Isaiah.

“Oh, we’re not betting,” Isaiah says. “We’re here for Family Day. I just want to see who’s racing.”

The confused expression on the man’s face is priceless as he eyes all of us, trying to place how we are all “family.” But he smiles again brightly. “Well, have a good time, regardless!”

We pass an area that looks like stables, right in front of the main building. There’s an odor of hay and manure, which makes A.J. pinch his nose. “Why they gotta smell like that, man?”

“They’re very large creatures,” Isaiah says